My Closet With Black Clouds and Red Mist-Wednesday, September 27, 2006-4:44PM
When I was a kid the mother use to say that if you couldn’t find me just start looking in the closets. I hung out in them all the time. I’d face the wall and pretend I was the only person in the world. In my head I could see myself standing on a hill, at the very top, looking up at the sky with my hands dangling lifelessly at my side. I listened intently to hear God’s voice. I expected to hear him at any time, to hear him tell me he’s coming after me and that everything would be okay. I’d stand there on that hill and wait and hope I’d hear his voice before I heard the mothers. I use to think, I guess I still do, but when I was a kid I thought the greatest thing in the world would be to have a hug from God. I could feel it too. I could feel him scoop me up and put my head on his shoulder and tell me everything would be okay because he is here now and he’s taking me with him. I’d lay my head on his shoulder and hold on tight and we’d leave the field together. That’s why I went into that closet everyday, cause I hoped he’d come and get me and take me away from her.
I expect his voice to be deep but not deep like the sound of thunder. I’d expect his embrace to be strong but not like fear on my heart when I heard my mothers voice call instead of his. I just wanted to leave there. It doesn’t seem like I have. Dr. B keeps telling me it’s over now I don’t have to be afraid anymore but I am. I’m scared to death! And I’m pissed! I’m pissed that when I go to sleep she’s going to be there and it doesn’t seem like I can do anything at all about it.
I’ve wanted to cut more than once this week. I haven’t done it but came awful damn close. I wanted to exit this place. I didn’t even come close. That thought left as quickly as it came. I feel like a whore. I feel ashamed of that and that makes me mad too that she comes over here for the sole purpose of getting laid…and to have her laundry done. I mean hell, she might as well have clean clothes when she leaves. I don’t like the way she talks to me. I don’t like it at all. It reminds me of my uncle when he called me his little whore. It makes me want to strangle the bitch. She hasn’t called me that but she talks to me that way. Her picture is in a frame but I keep it face down until she comes over. Then I sit it up. When she leaves I put it right back down. I want to know where the strong Aussie is. I’d like to have her back.
Part of me sleeps with her because it hurts me. I know it’s damaging and it feels like self destruction. It’s like cutting without the blades. I’m re-creating this whole mother relationship, like maybe doing all this over again is going to make the past turn out differently. I’m working like a damn dog, cleaning her house, doing her laundry, giving her massages, cooking her damn meals and hoping somehow that I’m going to feel worthwhile. But then there’s the self destructive aspect of it where I sleep with her at times because I know it’s the exact opposite of what I should be doing. Lord, talk about working against oneself. I hate her in so many ways, I hate me in so many ways. I want to be the “good girl” yet I want to hurt me too and make sure I say the “bad girl.” It’s this whole tug of war thing going on. Hell, I think I just wrote the newest version of the book I hate you don’t leave me only now it’s I hate you I can’t leave you.
Anna
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